


Flagrate

by sirius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius/pseuds/sirius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was written in 2006. It includes explicit sexual content.</p>
<p>'Fragrate' is a spell which "makes the spell-caster able to draw lines of fire with their wand" (from the HP Lexicon). Song lyrics are from Tori Amos' 'Hey Jupiter'.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Flagrate

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in 2006. It includes explicit sexual content.
> 
> 'Fragrate' is a spell which "makes the spell-caster able to draw lines of fire with their wand" (from the HP Lexicon). Song lyrics are from Tori Amos' 'Hey Jupiter'.

_1\. And this little masochist._

When she and Draco Malfoy had been sorted into Slytherin in the first year, Pansy Parkinson hadn’t quite known what to think. Of course, he had gone first and there was some sort of bitter irony in that she’d been the first to follow him. Merely mathematical chance, she supposed in her milder moods, but she couldn’t help but brood – a mere thirty seconds after ‘Malfoy, Draco; Slytherin!” had come ‘Parkinson, Pansy; Slytherin!” and of all things, Pansy hated to look a groupie. She had tried her best to mould her face into indifference as she’d headed for her house’s table – aware all around of her peers and their respective welcomes to their respective heroes. Walking towards Draco, she could already see that he was carving himself as some sort of figurehead and his gestures of importance made her sick with admiration. Yes, Slytherin had been right. Not for her to go to some puffed-up male, crooning false wonder. Not like the _Gryffindors._ All she could hear from that side was that red-blooded enthusiasm she’d only come to despise through the years; that orgasmic whine of “we got Potter! We got Potter!” like that would somehow save the world. Scars were only good for milking sympathy, Pansy thought, and Harry looked like a pussy to her. 

The Ravenclaws seemed little better. More controlled, but filled to the brim of self-indulgent stoicism. _Quiet little geniuses_ , they seemed to say, with scrutinising black eyes and those blue robes – cold and threatening. Pansy didn’t see much value in that. She’d rather use her brain for her own purposes than studying mindless discoveries of other people, of whom she had about as much interest as she did in small children or big-eyed kittens. What was the point in reading books when you could be the one writing them? Ravenclaws might be smart, but they had no _motivation_ , and Pansy had that by the bucketful. Still, she supposed. It was better than being in _Hufflepuff_. 

Overly nice people had always made Pansy suspicious and the sunshine yellow robes were eerie to her; as eerie as old men offering sweets out of car windows, crooked fingers beckoning and the like. Nobody was truly nice when they had to profess as much, and besides, hadn’t anyone heard of subtlety? She’d look awful in the colour, anyway, and her skin tone would never forgive her. Best to leave the Hufflepuff house to _nice_ girls like Hannah Abbot and Susan Bones, who were probably as innocent as lambs and twice as stupid. 

Quietly, she took her place at the table and peered down the line. Aside from the butter-haired one there weren’t many who took to her instant liking. That Millicent Bulstrode looked like she might have a character in her, underneath that bolshy raised eyebrow and the indignant alignment of her face. Pansy tended not to get along with girls – something about an excess of unfeminine violent pride -, but Millicent wore an expression of similar confidence and Pansy appreciated that. There was nothing so sickening as quaint old women telling their granddaughters to have dignity and to be ladylike; _no man will ever want to court you if you claim to be his equal, you know_. Pansy didn’t think she wanted to be courted, anyway – you could court disaster, salesmen could court consumer-victims and animals could court their filthy mates. You could break marriages in courts or received sentences in court; you could go down on bended knee to an Emporer in a court. Nowhere in the language of the word ‘court’ was the possibility of receiving head in the library – and that was what Pansy saw as romantic, anyway. 

 

_2\. She’s ready to confess._

She wasn’t aware of it until her later teens – or maybe she was, just in different words. Even the Slytherin girls sat up at night discussing who they wanted to kiss and who they wanted to go to Hogsmeade with, and it was only in the start of fifth year that Pansy shocked the life out of the lot of them when she said airily, “I’d let Draco Malfoy put his hand in my pants.”

For her, it was the _Draco Malfoy_ that shocked her the most, because she’d never wanted to be a groupie. 

Hormones were a bitch.

Malfoy wasn’t the salvation that Potter was, nor the intellectual that everyone supposed Chang was, or the kindly saint that Diggory was. He didn’t need cooing over or petting or to be treated like a pop star, not when everyone knew he was _filthy_ rich and pureblood, and probably got all such adoration at home in the Malfoy manor. Boys who had a quill with a solid silver tip, ‘just as a spare, you know’ deserved no praise whatsoever. Unless one desired the same and Pansy hadn’t much interest in money, on the whole. Useful, yes, but it didn’t get her blood going. She’d seen Malfoy charm the pants off girls before with his, ‘eighty-six rooms before Father decided on an extension’ this and his ‘oh, this? No; genuine emerald, in fact. Surely it can’t be the very biggest you’ve ever seen…?’ that. Seen it and scowled at it and sighed to Millicent, “he’s so very tiresome, isn’t he?”

She changed her mind whenever he slanted his pale eyes her way, which was on the whole, very inconvenient. Nonetheless, he never seemed to learn that to get her attention he had to stop paying attention to his jewels and his ego and pay attention to her, so their involvement had never really gotten off the ground. They shared an awkward sort of friendship based on the loving exchange of insults and the silent trade of glances that were meaningful because of teenage hormones and little else. Pansy liked to watch Draco play Quidditch because she liked to watch his thighs, even if he wasn’t Potter’s match – who cared about Harry, anyway? He still looked like a pussy to Pansy. She’d noticed that Draco had knuckles that went the colour of icicles whenever he was clinging on tight, and that was enough for her. Besides; Harry always pulled that windswept face and it wasn’t nearly as attractive. Not that it mattered, because neither gave her what she needed and by the end of fifth year, she was fed up with both. Hormones were a bitch but boys were worse.

 

_3\. Sometimes, I breathe you in._

By the beginning of sixth year, Draco was getting His Act Together and discovering hormones and lust and all sorts of different ways to make girls get hot over him, or at least Pansy, which was about the same thing. For all her cutting scorn, Pansy enjoyed being the centre of attention even if only because Draco thought she had the best tits of the year. There was no need to be the nicest, or the most intelligent, or the bravest; she was the courted mate of Slytherin’s pureblood prince and actually, she supposed ‘court’ had quite the ring to it after all. Walking into the common room became fun again, with flushed cheeks and her hair out of place and that mysterious quirk of an eyebrow. Having the girls all hoard around her with swooning locked hands and plaintive cries of _have you really done it, then?_ and _is he as good as he looks_? and _you bitch, Parkinson, you lucky bitch_ , that was the point in being a Slytherin. That was the point in being Pansy Parkinson, more to the point and the joy of being the man’s equal – people were now starting to inquire of her secrets, what nectar she’d used to ensnare Slytherin’s leading male. Maybe ten years ago she’d have punched Draco for his insufferable sexist superiority but fucking him with her femininity seemed to bring her more success. In jealous tones the girls convened over illegal use of potions and toxins and spells but came up with nothing, left with the dismal notion that Pansy was just Special, and shouldn’t they attempt to ally with her, just in case? And Pansy knew that it was contrived and knew that it was false, and above all knew that it was all nauseating hypocrisy, but she _loved_ every moment of it. 

A good girl never shared, though, and Pansy remained tight-lipped about it, when her mouth wasn’t otherwise engaged.

The first time Draco had touched her – or the first time Pansy had allowed him to – had been in the first week of sixth year. Overcome with the residue of some Quidditch-induced testosterone, Draco had marched up to the library, disturbing Pansy and a bored Millicent, and stood for some time as Pansy ignored him, scratching away with her quill. 

In all honesty, it had come to be voyeuristic and awkward and not at all as planned or conniving as it should have been for two of Salazar’s greatest Slytherins.

 

_4\. And I know you know._

“I want…” Draco had muttered, leaning across the table so that his hands were almost in Pansy’s lap and actually, that was far more thrilling that it should have been. “…Pansy? Look at me when I’m talking to you. Put the quill down and look at me.”

“Or what, Draco?” She had drawled, not looking at him but thumbing down her parchment and reading idly through her most recent paragraph. “You’ll hex me? Perform one of your inane charms – perhaps turn me into a wheedling minion like all the rest of your moronic posse?”

“I’ll leave.” His voice had been snappy; serious. Pansy had recognised it as a genuine threat. She supposed because Draco tended not to make harmless ones. It was one of the things she admired about him. Still. She knew how to play the game.

“Will you?” Her eyes had risen from the page, lazily forbidden to lift past his crotch; emphatic. “I’m not sure.”

In a small discreet hiss, he had muttered, “I can take this to the showers, you know. You’re honoured I’ve even come here for you. I know you want it. I know you want me. So why don’t you stop pretending to be an arctic little madam and spread your legs for me?” That old Malfoy entitlement thing. It always had been a bother.

“Malfoy, in case you’re thinking too hard with your dick, there are books all around you. Commonly, that leads one to conclude that one is in a library. And much as I love to break rules – I’m not so easy that I’d allow you to do me on the desk in front of half of Ravenclaw house. Have a fun shower.”

He had quirked an eyebrow at her and she had realised in a second that he was already one step ahead. She should have seen that one coming; Draco was neither unobservant nor stupid, and doubtless he had some sort of plan up his robe-sleeve. Slanting her eyebrows further into a frown, Pansy had been reluctant to admit that her heart was racing. Shifting a little in her seat, her nerves had felt wound tight and her skin, all over, felt wet. 

“Your presumption is, as ever Miss Parkinson, delightful. Books are of course wondrous instruments but they fail to teach you life’s most crucial lessons, knowledge of which would have allowed you to use your infuriating presumption to guess my next move.”

“In English; check mate.”

“Quite,” Draco had smirked, reaching to knock one of Pansy’s books to the floor with a load thump. She stilled, quite unimpressed, breath catching. As his soft hair disappeared under the desk – not quite butter; more like _curd_ – she had caught onto what he was doing. By that time, his hands were around her knees and his breath was on her thighs and God, wasn’t that quite the dilemma. 

“Draco,” she had hissed. “If you are seen, I shall personally see to it that crucio is performed on your cock.”

“Pansy,” he had murmured back, a small tickle to her right thigh as he drew her skirt up, “I’m about to personally see to it that flagrate is performed on your cunt. Kindly shut up.”

No, Draco was neither unobservant nor stupid. He was equally not perfect and his efforts had been charmingly teenage; a fumbling tongue that he made no apologies for combined with inquisitive fingers made Pansy think for a second that Draco had perfected the art of giving head purely by not having the first clue how to do it. He had been gracious enough to pretend not to know just where to touch her and her fingers scrabbling under the desk at his hand had pleased her; a blush forming over her cheeks as she stared furiously down at her parchment. _At least I’ll forever remember the fourteenth chapter of Hogwarts: A History. Maybe I’ll even better Granger for once._

Thankfully, he had remained silent throughout; none of that disgusting male talk about how wet she was or how much she wanted him – Draco took smug satisfaction in showing rather than telling. He did not object to her instructions nor chuckle at her low, harsh breaths; merely did as he was told and smiled as he wore her out, wore her down. As her fingers had shook on his he directed her down and inside her and she felt like kicking him hard for everything he was making her feel. Not the most gracious move, she had decided, but absolutely warranted as sweat rolled down her shirt collar and her knees turned to jelly. “Harder,” she had spat, disguising it with a cough as a couple of Hufflepuffs looked her way. She had never been so thankful for picking the desk half-obstructed by the bookshelves; at least not since she the time she had fallen asleep in there last term, after a painfully late cramming session. 

He had obliged in an unusually considerate manner which suggested he might want something out of her after this but she didn’t care, as long as that wasn’t his fingers, because that was in that moment the central force of her being and if he stopped, she might kill him. Under the general murmur of page-turning she had been able to hear his head bumping gently against the underside of the table, mouth working lip-service overtime, and she had curled a shoe around his back. The edge of leather against his spine served only to remind him of the danger of the situation and he had further acknowledged her request, sucking and licking and stroking with every last iota of post-Quidditch energy and her gratitude had come in waves, warm and wet, with a noise she muffled around thick wads of her sleeve. 

“I’ve found it,” Draco had declared in a sugary tone, coming to a stand and placing the discarded book agreeably back onto Pansy’s desk. “Best to ensure you’re giving your study a thorough going over, wouldn’t you agree?” A small smirk and Draco had pointedly licked his lips; insufferable wet-mouthed boy, no point in taking things any further, bound to get into so much trouble-

“I’ll come up to your room at 9,” she exhaled, “Be there.”

 

_5\. Found your writing on my wall._

Oddly, the sex had not been nearly as exciting. Perhaps it was because of the deflection towards Draco’s orgasm; Pansy had found that it wasn’t quite as interesting when someone else’s pleasure came first. Though the clumsiness of his mouth before had been charming, the awkwardness of his thrusts was decidedly not and she lay still for some time, wincing in beats against him, willing him not to come before she could get into it. She thought that he had lasted eight before he came and whether it was all too much, she didn’t know, but she would not regard it as virginity lost. Banishing away the memories of heavy hands parting her legs and stuttered breaths of, ‘I have to…move, I have to, fuck, _Pansy_ ’ before she’d quite got used to the feeling of him inside her, she had moved towards him; naked and green-eyed. They were equal then – or, more importantly, it was Her Turn. And damnit, she never had thought that one day, she’d be teaching Draco Malfoy how to fuck. 

A small push on his shoulder and he had been flat on his back and she was working, waiting; planting catalytic kisses all down his chest bone and over his nipples. Not patient by nature her enthusiasm had been urgent and his eyes had closed and after a while of selfish sucking, she had detected welcome interest, surging heat against her hip. He had given out a groan, perhaps from oversensitivity more than anything, as she had curled a greedy hand around him. Swinging a leg over his body she had trusted him to catch her as she fell, burying her head into his shoulder as her hands flittered below, _here, slowly, slowly!_ , taking him by hand and moving him into her as if she were the man and he the woman and did it matter anyway, when she was setting the pace? Warmth in slow seconds; beats of pulse and sensation and _don’t rush it, my turn, my turn now_ , and him moaning away. Drawing him up to the hilt, she had held him steady and glittered green-gold onto his face with her eyes, “Slow down if you’re going to come. Alright, Malfoy?”

The way he snarled at the insult had only heightened her lust for him and she released him, allow him some rein to slide into her rhythm. Shaking her hair from her shoulders and rolling her hips, she had regarded it secretly as unfair – the cock that she was using could have been anybody’s and the space in the bed afterward would be empty or filled and it wouldn’t matter. She didn’t, couldn’t, love him but she had supposed he didn’t want that any more than she did; they’d never been best friends and would never be partners. Always tempestuous friends, off-road lovers. They were physicality wrapped in the bounds of angry intimacy and she could hardly see herself sitting down to tea in his manor wearing a twin-set and pearls and calling herself Mrs. Malfoy. Fucking him into the soft green silk of his bed she had seen herself only as part of his body; as a hot connection to his lust, to his scorn, to his primal urges. As his hands had skated over her breasts; swapping periods of sharp thrusts with painful drags, she had thought to herself that he was no more to her than a cock and a voice and a pretty pair of eyes; a beautiful ecstasy and a tolerable fighting counterpart. She was him and he was she and that never boded well. They had fucked in shades of gender and shades of each other and she realised implicitly that she was too much for him. Had she been a man, it might have been different, but-

Holding back had never been Draco’s strong point and she had helped herself along with a dripping hand and a series of growls; not allowing him to touch her, not allowing him that close. Always had a card up her sleeve, did Pansy, and she knew how to entice as she watched him watching her touch herself; hungry-handed and blazing. As his back had arched beneath her and his hips made jagged edges of a jigsaw puzzle she had evened herself out, regulated her pleasure so that she rose with it and grew stronger, like a tower of water inside her body. With a final rush of falling she would spill over and melt around him; wet and white and mewling into his neck. It was the only true intimacy she allowed, that moment of exhaustion upon his chest and his hand against her back; the wildness of his breath as it wrenched itself from his lungs. Afterward when her thighs were sticky and she felt violated and taken, she wondered why she’d bothered. Sex was just another demand and Draco filled her, not the other way around. She felt his imprints, his fingerprints, deep inside her body. He would wash her away. Equality could never be in the bedroom whatever she did – and what was the fun in that? Reduced to a mere princess once more, at best a tagalong fuck, her pride was scurrying away into a corner. Later on at night, she would sit on the windowsill of her own dorm and be sore and cry a bit if she was sure nobody else was awake. 

Then she’d go to bed and forget all about it, until it happened again and she wondered what the point in all this was for a girl like her.

She never once wished she was a man, until she found out about Draco’s other attraction.

 

_6\. If my heart’s soaking wet._

The one who could never go away. The Boy Who Would Never Be Washed Off, she would tell herself, in a moment of bitter irony. It hadn’t been intended for her to find out but these things get around, as all school gossip does, and so many of the Slytherins were whispering about it that it seemed inevitable, in the end. Draco himself said nothing, as was his tendency, and people took of that what they wanted but nobody could deny that the _something_ had been there all along. What had drawn Draco to Harry initially had been power through reputation; that scar worth as much as the Malfoy millions, but what had deepened it was hate giving way to resentment, vengeance and scorn. Through their adolescence years their insults had sharpened and become sexual and they had become sexual, if unaware, circling fighters in a ring. Draco was obsessed and Harry wasn’t much better – maddened with teenage rage everything had become about who he could strike at and segregated camps and how much he detested Voldemort and Dumbledore and Peter Pettigrew and this whole school, and everyone in it who refused to believe his stories. Malfoy, that slimy Malfoy, he hated him too, even if the reasons had long gone old and stale around the edges. 

Draco had probably known first, that rage had turned to provocation and provocation to lust, or perhaps provocation and lust. They had fucked before in fights with words and wands; rushing after Snitches or screaming battles across the halls. Fury rose in each like a hot autumn bonfire, tickling nerves to tingles and tightening muscle and scaring both of them half to death. Pansy recognised it all, in time, in Draco’s eyes. At first she thought it was just a crush and accepted that with her usually careless attitude. She could well relate to arousal slaked through a good fight and just because Draco fought particularly well with Harry, didn’t make him gay. Didn’t make him any less committed. She and he fought in the same way, so it wasn’t as though Harry had replaced her. Just that Draco had found someone else a bit like her, and it would fizzle out, fade as teenage feelings often did and in the meantime, she fucked him a little bit better each time. Just in case. Collapsing inside, coming to like those fingerprints and his hands over her and itching inside and she’d be _damned_ if she came to like Draco as much. By the end of sixth year, he’d stopped talking about Harry altogether. 

She didn’t know that it was because they’d kissed.

By that time, she thought she was in love with him. 

 

_7\. And I thought I wouldn’t have to be with you/As something new._

It was possible to remember, though not entirely painless, the last moments before it had all fallen into place. She’d been wrapped up in one of his bed sheets and the colour had caught his eyes and she’d _known_. Standing by the window all pale skin and green silk and dark, cropped hair and green eyes – she could see what he was thinking and what he had been thinking when he’d let her push him down and lower herself onto him. The fingerprints full of ink and betrayal and blood and she hated him in that moment – _hated_ him. And when she’d told him so he hadn’t a word to say; other than a pointed remark about her own dishonesty. It was then that she realised _this is going to end, you know, one day soon_ was not the same as _I think I’m falling in love with you_ and that she had an idiotic mouth. 

Looking at those pale eyes she’d seen a whole other world that didn’t include her; a world of masculinity and bravery, where Draco really saw the nicest, the most intelligent and the bravest and he wanted it. He loved her in the same way you love a pet that’s bitten you; with familiarity and wariness all at once. He felt for Harry in ways he’d never wanted to feel; bottomless and angry and hot and cold and fucking _infatuated_. Silently so, and repressively so and miserably so, as it happened because neither had taken it further than the kiss and neither seemed brave enough to, but it was enough for Pansy to feel decidedly second-rate. She remembered walking the stone floor toward the Slytherins in first year and seeing everyone in colours, not noticing that Harry was green as well as red and Draco’s eyes vengeful across the room. She had an idiotic brain as well. 

By the end of sixth year, she’d stopped talking to Draco altogether. 

 

_8\. Thought we both could use a friend/To run to._

It was only just into the holiday that she’d started again by letter, what with Draco despondent with things and his father being in Azkaban, and all. Pansy had never been the nicest, the most intelligent or the bravest but she’d always been the most _Slytherin_ and stupidly, she’d thought that all that counted. Three weeks away from Hogwarts and she’d realised that she missed Draco; not for his silk bed or his arrogance or his being the best fellow-Slytherin she’d ever met, but because he was herself, somehow, and not talking to him was like trying to keep secrets from yourself – too much effort and a pain in the ass. And so Pansy wrote to him, without forgiveness or gushing, because of all things, she hated to look a groupie. 

_Bad idea to get involved with Gryffindors, you know. They always want to be on top. Done anything about him yet? Know how useless you boys are, etc._

_Write me back,  
Parkinson. _

Chewing her quill, she shrugged and added a postscript. God forbid getting all squishy like Chang or bambi-eyed like Bones, but then, Pansy figured there was more to life than being the perfect Slytherin after all. 

_P.S. Just tell him you want to perform flagrate on his cunt, Malfoy. It worked for me._


End file.
